


once more I trust to have

by Shallott



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, F/F, F/M, Future Fic, Kid Fic, M/M, in which I project my baby issues onto Derek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-02
Updated: 2013-10-02
Packaged: 2017-12-28 04:12:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/987512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shallott/pseuds/Shallott
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You realize Derek's birthday is tomorrow and you have nothing planned,” Isaac sighs, rubbing his temples. Stiles is unconcerned—it's pretty much what's happened every year. </p><p>“Details,” Stiles says with a dismissive wave.</p>
            </blockquote>





	once more I trust to have

**Author's Note:**

  * For [trelkez (Greensilver)](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=trelkez+%28Greensilver%29).



> Happy 30th birthday to Trelkez! Make good choices!

“Strippers,” Stiles says firmly, as if scantily clad strangers were all that stood between a normal evening and a night of sheer debauchery. “Strippers for each of us.” 

Scott rolls his eyes so hard his tiny forehead wrinkle grows perceptibly. He taps the notebook impatiently. “Dude, I have a _wife_ and your dad is still the sheriff for another eighteen months.” 

“Scott, you don't understand. Strippers. Strippers, way too much booze, maybe some foam, and he _eee_ ey, Derek, way to keep those lurking skills sharp!” Scott dives for the sofa, burying the notebook and the huge words _DEREK'S SURPRISE PARTY_ under a stack of cushions. Stiles sits on it, and Scott's hands, for good measure. Derek stares at them.

“When you're done here, we have the thing for Cora and Lydia in less than an hour.”

“Right,” Stiles says, nodding firmly. “Absolutely one hundred percent going to be there, got my RSVP all sent in, I'll bring the sage, you bring the blood, Allison brings the muffins. It'll be great. Don't stress, sourwolf.”

Derek seems to be attempting to bore a hole into his face. “You've got ink on your,” he thumbs at his nose and looks distressed at Stiles' inability to be a real 24 year old, “Wash your face before you get there, this is important.”

They count to ten after he leaves, wait for the old stairs to creak gently under Derek's mountain-man feet, before Scott shoves Stiles off his hands and yanks out the notebook, glaring reproachfully. “You messed up my page,” Scott says mournfully, trying to flatten the paper. 

“Suck it up, twinkle toes,” Stiles licks his thumb and scrubs at his nose blindly. He turns to Scott. “Did I get it?” There's a smudge of black now spanning his entire nose, partially ink, partially the consequences of raiding Derek's herb collection. 

“Yeah, you got it,” Scott says, flipping the notebook closed vindictively and pushing Stiles off the sofa. “Let's go, I need to change and pick up Allison and Julie.” 

“You're bringing Julie to Lydia's baby thing?” Stiles says, dusting off his pants. “She's kind of young for it, dude. We literally had _her_ baby thing six months ago.” 

“It was eight months ago, and she's pack, she has to be there,” Scott says flatly, still carrying the weight of generations of rituals and rites awkwardly. Stiles shrugs. 

Isaac pokes his head in the door, the light of the descending sun catching the tiny silver hairs in his sideburns. “You've got something for his birthday, right?” Scott looks exceedingly hopeless and Stiles opens his mouth and closes it in defeat.

“You realize Derek's birthday is _tomorrow_ and you have nothing planned,” Isaac sighs, rubbing his temples. Stiles is unconcerned—it's pretty much what's happened every year. 

“Details,” Stiles says with a dismissive wave. “Are you coming with us to the thing?” Isaac grins and holds up his motorcycle helmet. “Have fun with the car seat, guys,” and disappears down the stairs.

 

  

Allison is waiting for them in the driveway, one toe tapping on the cement while Julie plays with a fuzzy duck in her carrier. Scott pecks her apologetically on the cheek and straps Julie into the backseat of the Camry where Stiles spends the entire ride playing the most elaborate game of peekaboo ever imagined. 

“Just remember,” Allison is saying as Stiles slowly descends from the car ceiling to a squealing Julie's total delight, “Lydia hasn't been happy since the last time she could see her feet. So don't do anything to piss her off. Stiles. Stiles, are you listening?”

“I hang on your every word,” Stiles says, now partially covered in floor mats. “Wait, what do I do that pisses her off? We worked your baby thing together, that was a great party. Lydia and me are still bros. ” 

“Breathe loudly,” suggests Scott as he merges onto Chester. “Chew with your mouth open. Chew. Move. Say something beyond hello.” 

“Yeah, Scott, I'm not taking pregnant lady advice from you, Mr. Are-You-Really-Having-Contractions-Maybe-It's-Just-Gas.” 

“That was a valid question!” 

“Not valid when she's actually having contractions, dude. You're a vet, get your vet knowledge shi—”Allison twists to glare at him, “Shhhtuff together.” 

“She's been on a plane for three hours, Cora gets air sick, and there's a small person inside her. Just smile, be helpful, and do whatever she says,” Allison smiles at him, not at all concerned that Stiles is slowly covering her child with leaves. She hands him a wet wipe. “And get that thing off your nose.”

 “Scott!”

 

  

Stiles had, for reasons unknown then and now, volunteered his own home to Lydia and Cora months ago and while Scott parks and manages to unstrap Julie from her car seat—it takes a minute but he's really getting better—Stiles is already out of the car running to set up his multitude of jars and bowls and herbs. He's late. He's only a little late because there was traffic on Beech, but hopefully Lydia hasn't noticed and he can just slip out back. He's just pulled the first jar out from under the sink when someone creaks on his floor. 

“Stilinski,” barks a sharp voice behind him as he hits his head on the shelf above. Cora squints from the living room, looks as if she's thinking of hitting him, and narrowly decides against it before wrapping him in a short, tight hug. 

“Nervous?” Stiles says bracingly, remembering the days of Scott's panicked flapping hands and Allison's very terse smiles. “How're the last remaining free days of your life? Where's your better half, who I will be very, very nice to?” 

Cora leans back against the dishwasher, tilting her head to the ceiling. “It's a fucking nightmare, Stiles, you have no idea. The flight over here, I swear I was about to jump out of the emergency hatch and Hudson River that shit. This baby is killing me and Lydia is killing me and I can't even get drunk and not think about it for three hours.” 

“I have to rub blood on at least three people in less than an hour and I have no blood and nothing set up and probably all of those people are going to kill me, okay? You decided you wanted kids, welcome to parenthood.” 

“Be nice,” Allison admonishes, swooping in to hug Cora. “It's not as bad as you think. Just try not to drop anything.” She tucks Julie's carrier under a table and then passes her to Scott who manages to not fumble his only child and actually looks rather sweet. Cora sighs and manages a half-smile.

“I think I can handle that. Gimme,” she reaches for Julie, who grabs at her fingers and blows a spit bubble. “See,” Scott says, proud of his ridiculously adorable offspring. “Pretty much anyone can do it.” 

Before Stiles can record this Kodak moment, Boyd shoves the screen door open with a screech that makes Stiles wince at the impending repair charges. “Stiles, could you please go and do your job since I've been making tiny fucking sandwiches for three hours ? Where's Derek? Don't they need him for something important?” 

“He just pulled up,” Scott says, hawkishly watching Cora bounce Julia on her knee. He shoves Stiles back to the front door. “Go get your blood spells on, I'll be here if you need me.” 

In a rare moment of James Bond skills, Stiles manages to open the front door exactly as Derek is about to knock. He smirks, pushing down the smug. 

Okay, he at least tries to push it down. “You're late.” 

Derek looks stricken and then angry, which is normal “I'm not late. It's at nine. It's twenty to nine right now.” 

“No, no,” Stiles gleefully wags a finger in his face. “It's a Lydia thing so you have to be here at eight thirty. You're late.”

“I'm here for Cora,” Derek sniffs, not taking the bait. 

“And Cora is still Lydia's serving wench for the next month and a half. You're late, come inside and bleed in a bowl to make up for it.” He herds Derek in the direction of the upstairs bathroom, grabbing a roll of paper towels just in case. 

Derek steps inside and rolls up his sleeves, muttering something that sounds like _extortion_ , sitting on the counter while Stiles rummages through a drawer. He pulls a bronze knife in the shape of a wolf from behind a dusty box of tissues and slices Derek's forearm almost a dozen times over a clay bowl, liberally dusted with lavender and sage. The grooves and hollows of Derek's wrist fit under his fingers, the map of veins and warm skin beating soft and strong, and Stiles rubs his thumb slowly over them before he can stop himself. With every cut, Derek is grimacing at the feel—not the pain, but the separation of whole skin to cold metal, the smell of his own body running out underneath him, and Stiles casually smiles down at him, small and reassuring, absently stroking the inside of his wrist. The low dim of the party, the sound of Boyd dropping something and cursing, melt away as they watch the blood fill slowly, cuts healing almost as quickly as Stiles can make them. 

There's a moment, as the tiny rivulets of blood slowly crusting on Derek's arm and Stiles is rubbing the newly stitched skin gently, when he looks up from the bowl and sees Derek just watching him, eyes wide and unblinking like he found something lost, precious, on the ground, under the sink, completely by accident. It's verging on an actual moment, Derek's face getting softer and closer until Stiles puts a hand on the counter for balance and sends the bowl flying to the tile floor. Derek catches it by his fingertips, tilting it precariously to keep the blood inside, resting it back on the counter with a firm clunk. 

“Go find Cora,” Stiles says after a moment in a hideously husky voice, the knife forgotten by the sink, still feeling the linger of Derek's drumming pulse trapped under his fingertips. Derek blinks, shakes himself like a punch-drunk dog, and walks out of the bathroom, not looking back.

 

 

Half an hour and two more pints of blood later, Stiles paints curving, careful promises on Lydia's belly in Cora and Derek's blood, lets them dry with the smell of herbs heavy in the air. He draws a small triskele around her navel and traces the same shape on Cora's, then Derek's hand, tingling as Derek stands over him, watching his fingers move. He blows on the blood to seal it, looking up in time to catch the slightest tremor in Derek's calm face, but before he can wonder about it the party actually starts, arguing and catching up, plates and plates of Boyd's food straining an old patio table's will to live. There's wine for the humans and punch spiked with wolfsbane for the wolves, just enough to make everyone light and loose-limbed. Lydia gives Stiles a side hug, lets him laugh and run his hands over her marked belly, huge and appropriately dignified under a flowing purple shirt. 

“You did good, Stiles,” Cora says begrudgingly, running her hand through Lydia's curls after the marking is finished. It's cute, Stiles thinks, the way Cora pushes their chairs close together, and feeds Lydia bites of an egg salad sandwich between lazy kisses before Lydia heaves herself up, grudgingly going to the bathroom yet again. 

“We're very proud of our young Stiles,” Erica says solemnly, stealing the remains of Lydia's sandwich. Cora smacks at her hand without meaning as she stuffs it in her mouth. 

“No, really,” Cora says, turning on her side to look at him. “This is actually nice. Even though Lydia complained about her back and her stomach and her everything the entire way here.” 

“Even though you can't get drunk?” Stiles asks over the edge of his glass. Cora frowns deeply at this and plucks Isaac from out of nowhere, drags him down to eye level. “If you don't get me a cup of that punch five minutes ago, I'll pull your claws off and feed them to you.” 

Stiles laughs and takes stock of his backyard, Boyd arguing with Derek about the best way to grill a steak, Erica staring contemplatively from Julie to Boyd while Scott and Allison kiss with a disturbing amount of tongue by the bushes, Isaac running with an overflowing cup of punch. Even Cora looks peaceful, settled and covertly buzzed enough to give him a smile over the rim of her glass. This weekend, before she and Lydia fly back to Hartford, before Boyd and Allison go back to grad school, before they all get lost in the separate lives they've carved out for themselves, this will be the last time they're together, eating and drinking and friendly threatening in Stiles' backyard for who knows how long. 

“Don't forget the birthday, dude,” Scott mutters urgently, rapidly walking by with an arm tangled in Allison's hair, leaving Isaac trapped under an almost sleeping Julie on his chest. Stiles looks over to Derek, smirking as Boyd growls furiously at a slab of meat on the grill, and snorts into his glass. 

Erica pulls Boyd away from the desecrated remains of a cow to get a drink and Stiles keeps looking at Derek, watching him stand by the herb garden, bare feet sinking into the grass, swaying a little. He looks content, at peace in a way Stiles would have never associated with Derek three years ago. It feels like all the noise has disappeared, has been muffled and it's alarmingly close to perfect—just before Derek's eyes snap open, his head swivels, before his human ears can hear anything, but Stiles is already up and moving, running to the back door when they hear Lydia scream from the bathroom.

 

 

Lydia has one hand braced against the bathroom cabinets and one hand trying to break Cora's fingers. She's panting and pale, watching as Allison paces mechanically, trying to hustle the 9-11 dispatcher into sending an ambulance faster. Stiles grips his keys, digs his suddenly too big fingers into the case of his phone, just to have something to have onto. 

“Squeeze my hands,” Cora says, moving directly into Lydia's vision, rubbing circles over her white knuckles. “Squeeze them as hard as it hurts.” Lydia grinds her teeth and _presses_ , and Cora's lips thin, and Stiles suddenly remembers his mother's voice saying those words, feeling her bones shift under his hands while his dad gamely tried to pull a splinter out of his foot. Cora is taking some small dose of Lydia's pain every few minutes, Allison has the ambulance breaking all the speed limits, Isaac is putting all the food in tupperware, and Stiles is just _so_ useless. 

“We'll be there with you, Lydia, it's going to be okay, just look at me, it's going to be okay,” Allison says, smoothing wisps of hair away from Lydia's sweaty forehead. Lydia swats her hand away without real effort. “Just Cora. Don't want anyone else there.” Allison presses her lips and looks away. 

“According to the CDC,” Stiles says, fingers flying across the screen of his phone, “There were almost 35,000 home births last year.” Lydia takes a swing at him and he decides to leave Cora and Allison to it. 

Out of the awful heat of the bathroom, Boyd and Scott play in the living room with Julia, trading anxious looks, while Erica raids Stiles' closet for blankets and half-suitable clothes for Lydia, but Derek, Derek looks misshapen and misplaced, an corner in a circular puzzle. He slumps against the wall, head back, and the muscles around his eyes are as tight as Stiles has ever seen them—he actually jumps a little when Stiles puts a hand on his shoulder. 

“She's going to be okay, you know. Six weeks early, it happens.” 

Derek scrapes the tips of his claws over Stiles' floor, flexing them back and forth. “I know.” 

“And the baby's going to be fine, too. Preterm labour is kind of common with fertility treatments. I did some reading. Okay, a lot of reading.” 

“That's really great, Stiles.” 

“Have you seen the most recent maternal health statistics? The mortality rate is great in this part of California.” 

“I know, Stiles.” 

“Great, try to remember that and stop clawing up my floor.” Stiles folds himself down next to Derek and knocks a knee against his. “There's no way in hell this all doesn't work out fine, Derek. You have to trust me on that.” Derek looks up at that, brow scrunched, eyes so plainly searching, so openly scared that Stiles pushes his fingers into Derek's hand, wraps around, and squeezes before he can stop himself.

Derek says nothing, eyes still huge and terrified, but he squeezes back, so lightly Stiles might have imagined it, and there's another one of those moments, still and stretched like spun glass, before the screech of sirens becomes audible, and Derek surges up to the bathroom, helping Cora get Lydia to her feet. She grips his hand and screams as another contraction ripples through her as Cora picks her up like nothing—like a _baby_ , baby baby baby, having a baby, Stiles' brain supplies—and carries her out to meet the EMTs, Derek holding his arms half out just in case. 

It hits him then, a wave of terror and sour, sharp panic sinking in his chest, heavy like an avalanche, his best friend and his best friend's were-wife and his maybe more than friend in the back of a glorified white van, trying to bring an actual human being into the world. He turns to grabs Scott, ready to say to hell with what Lydia says, let's go, let's be there, when Erica vaults down the stairs with a duffel bag, drops it in his arms, and takes his keys.

 

 

They take Scott's car for Julie and Stiles' second beast of a Jeep for luck. Erica sings almost every song on his playlist of baby-titled songs and Isaac thoughtfully pulls up a mountain of data points from the WHO. It helps.

  

 

By the time they arrive, Erica testing the quality of Stiles' recent brake tune up, Cora and Lydia have already been hustled into a private room, courtesy of Melissa's extensive network of nurses, leaving Derek to sit menacingly outside like a hulking, leather clad Swiss guard. 

“Would you be offended if I got you a halberd for your birthday?” Stiles says as they walk up, Scott lagging behind to leave Julie with Melissa at the nurses' station to be cooed over by fifteen semi-exhausted women. He pulls up another chair, drags it next to Derek, and squeezes his hand, digging his fingernails in as a reminder. Derek looks thrown, like this much human contact could shut down his sensory system, and squeezes back tentatively. Allison herds everyone else against the wall, leaning against Scott's shoulder, and together they keep watch over the door. 

“Exactly what is happening right now?” Erica says the second the nurse walks out, eyeing the closed door like she wants to kick it to pieces. 

The nurse looks unfazed. “She's about seven centimetres so far and she says she doesn't want an epidural, so we're approaching this like a typical birth. We've been giving her cortisol steroids and the NICU's ready.” She looks down at Derek. “It's going to be alright, young man.” 

Isaac laughs and Derek punches him and buries his head in his hands. Erica pats his back without even pretending to comfort and looks at Stiles, eyebrows hopping meaningfully. _Pie_ she mouthes instructionally. 

“What pie,” Stiles says stupidly and Boyd covers his eyes in shame. “Oh,” he tries again, “Hey, hey Derek, come with me to get some pie.” 

Derek looks up at that. “I literally saw you eat a half a steak and six tiny fucking sandwiches an hour ago.” 

“You're never too full for dessert,” Stiles says, pulling him to his feet. Isaac sits before Derek can take his seat back and Erica kicks him in the ass in the direction of the cafeteria. 

“You seriously want pie right now?” Derek tries again as they pass pediatrics. 

“Look,” Stiles says, frustrated and useless. He semi-boxes Derek in against the wall and an ugly chart for STD prevention, “I'm not a doctor or a nurse, and I can't magically Draino away pain, which Cora has on lock down, fyi. I'm kind of tipsy and I know fuck all about having a baby. So yeah, pie. You can come with me and grow more fat or you can stand here with your manpain and hide from Erica.” 

If there's one thing Stiles learned from the wonderful handful of years he had with his mom, it was when to walk away and now he walks away from Derek, slams opens the wobbling cafeteria door, and orders a slice of cherry pie. Either the booze or the impending arrival of Lydia's undoubtably terrifying genius progeny is starting to hit him because it tastes almost good. 

He's just about to start on the crust when Derek walks in, hands in pockets, fixedly staring forward. The cashier nervously hands him a piece of pecan, which Stiles wrinkles his nose at when he sits down. 

“I'm not even going to stoop to making a nut joke,” Stiles says, licking his fork clean. “You would like the weird super sugary pie, though.” He flicks a forkful of crumb at Derek and Derek slams the table with his fist, rattling it hard enough to make one of the strung out ER doctors turn around disapprovingly. 

“You need to breathe, right now, you need to do that,” Stile says, stealing a forkful and aggressively biting a pecan in half. “This is a pull yourself together moment right here, okay?” Derek looks outstandingly thunderous and Stiles thinks, _fuck it_ , and grabs both of Derek's hands and pulls them towards him. 

“Dude, _what_? Lydia? Because she's going to be fine, the nurse said she was gonna be fine, Cora would know if she wasn't fine. It's fine, dude. Fine. Seriously, so fine.” 

“Stop saying fine.” 

“Ugh, fine.” Derek makes a profoundly disappointed noise and Stiles laughs, lacing their fingers together, and Derek un-frowns just a little. 

“I'll make you a deal, okay. We eat this shitty ass pie, we go back to everyone else, and I'll let you stare fixedly at the door until something happens, and I won't let Erica bother you about it.” He pulls his hands back. “But you have to talk to me first. I know you can. There are words somewhere under that stubble.” 

Derek digs his hands into his hair and mutters something presumably full of self-hate. 

“Less personal loathing, more volume,” Stiles barks, rapping the table. 

“I'm scared of babies,” Derek mutters with the most pathetic look Stiles has ever seen on a grown man. 

“You're scared of babies,” Stiles repeats like a jackass because this cannot be happening. “Babies. You. And. Scared of them? You.” Derek stares determinedly at a suspicious brown stain on the table. “Babies,” Stiles tries again.” 

“They're so small!” Derek explodes, fingers clenching at thin air. “And they have soft spots and they don't make any sense and they smell weird and you put them down for just a second and they – cry.” 

“But you were okay with Jul—oh my God, Derek, did you lie about going to Washingtonto do _bullshit werewolf stuff_ to get away from Scott's baby?” 

Derek looks appropriately broken and contrite, but Stiles slaps him on the arm anyway. “You can't do just that,” he hisses while slowly moving Derek's pie to the other side of the table. “You can't decide you don't want to deal with whatever and bolt, because if shit goes to shit and you're not here to help, that's on you.” 

Derek breathes out hard at that and snatches his pie back. “Okay,” he says around a mouthful of artificial sugar flavouring. “We can go back now.”

 

  

“Derek's afraid of babies,” Stiles announces when they round the corner and everyone turns to look in disturbing unison. 

“Oh fuck me,” Boyd moans into his hands. Melissa laughs as she walks by and eyes Derek with undisguised amusement. “Wait right there,” she orders and comes back a minute later with Julie asleep in her arms. In a rapid movement that will take Scott _months_ to master, she somehow dumps Julie into his hands and speeds away before he can stop her. 

Derek looks too frozen with fear to run or jump through a window so he molds his arms around Julie's curled up little body and lets her drool on his shirt. 

“See?” Stiles says stroking the side of her tiny fist. “You're doing just fine.” 

Derek rocks Julie slowly in his arms, awkwardly trying to imitate what he'd seen Allison and Scott do. Allison pats him on the arm and smiles somewhat approvingly, which is reassuring despite Scott staring at him with a rigid neck and wide eyes. 

“So has anything happened?” Stiles asks Boyd, rummaging through Julie's diaper bag for her duck. 

Isaac groans and Erica smiles widely. “Lydia was screaming and then Erica tried to break in.” 

“To make sure she was okay,” Erica says primly, flipping her hair back. 

Stiles edges the duck into Derek's folded arms just as Lydia's screams come through the door. Erica tenses, standing quickly, but before she could smash it down, Cora opens the door, sweaty and exhausted, a huge, terrified grin stretched over her face. 

“I think the baby's crowning!” she shouts at them and slam the door shut. Julie stirs and lets out a wail from the crook of Derek's elbow. Scott blanches, reaching for her, but Derek is already lifting her up to his shoulder, letting her nestle there like a baby monkey. 

That's really fucking adorable, Stiles thinks and as if Derek can hear him, he turns to Stiles and looks nervously pleased. Scott coughs, a hint of growl buried in it. 

“I, um, is this right?” 

“Keep your palm more on her back for support,” Scott instructs with a gruff, fatherly tone Stiles has never heard before. Allison gives Stiles a look, somewhere between _really_ and _why_ but reaches over and pats Derek on the leg generously. 

“Crowning usually means the baby's about to arrive,” she says in a much more soothing tone than Stiles would have expected. “So probably it won't be much longer.”

 

  

 

An hour and eighteen minutes of the wolves listening intently to Lydia's breathing and heartbeat, Boyd is lightly snoring on the floor, his head sprawled lolling on Erica's shoulder as her chin slowly drifts down to her chest—only to bounce back up and slowly descend. When Allison and Isaac look ready to drop, Scott rouses them for cafeteria pie and bad coffee, placing Julie in some weird baby sling Stiles still hasn't figured out. It seems intimidating, like a nine-sided Rubik's cube or rope hammocks. 

“So Cora was wrong about the crowning,” Stiles says stretching his arms over his head. With the soft bulk of Julie no longer covering him, Derek looks petrified again, staring at the door like something's about to burst out and maim him. 

“I need to know—I need to make sure it's okay,” Derek says quietly, raking his short fingernails across his palms, back and forth over and over until his healing isn't fast enough to keep them from turning red. “Stop that,” Stiles chides, reaching over to flatten Derek's hands against his legs. “It's going to be okay, everything is still okay.” 

“Not that,” Derek grits, scrunching the denim under his fingers. “It, the baby, I need to—that's my family, Stiles.” 

 _Oh_ , Stiles realizes in a sublime moment of perfect clarity. Derek, equal parts afraid of and afraid for his family, spending the first years of Cora's return not letting her out of his sight, pushing her out of harm's way at the hint of a fight, watching over Peter as the life ebbed from him even after his second attempt at mass murder. And now this new piece of the tiny group Derek could call family, a new life to be loved and cherished and protected, fiercely, desperately, was in jeopardy. 

“Hey,” Stiles says, leaning his head against Derek's temple, intertwining their hands on Derek's warm, warm leg. “I know you're scared, okay, just hold on for a little bit longer and everything will be fine.” 

Derek straightens at that, looks at Stiles like he's never seem him before, opening his mouth to say something but is entirely cut off by a truly bloodcurdling scream and then Cora's rough voice, pitched painfully high, shouting, “Fucking shit, Jesus Christ Lydia just _push_!” 

Erica and Boyd surge to their feet, half shifted, eyes hard and golden. Even through the door Stiles can hear Lydia's hard breathing, shallow and all too fast, bottoming out into one huge straining shout. It's the most terrified Stiles has ever felt, he thinks, crushing Derek's hand while Erica digs her half-exposed claws into his shoulder. 

There's a terrible moment, ten silent seconds stretching into multiple lifetimes, crashing and breaking on the hallway's ugly linoleum floor and then—and then the unmistakable wail of a baby. Derek takes a long shuddering breath and Boyd sobs dryly, leaning against Erica. From down the hall, Allison and Isaac come hurtling towards the four of them, Scott lagging behind them, Julie pressed tight to his chest like a football. 

“What happened?” Allison demands, grabbing Derek by the arm. “The baby—” he starts, but Lydia's breathing crescendos to a shout again and Cora screams _oh my god oh my fucking god_ as the sounds of new tiny crying breaks across the stretch of hallway. 

“Out of the fucking way,” Erica says and kicks in the centre of the door, cracking the fake wood neatly. Still matted with speckles of blood is a bundle of red and wrinkled skin in Cora's arms, a matching ball of tiny baby flesh resting on Lydia's arm and chest. Cora takes two steps towards Lydia, placing the other baby into the curve of her other arm, bending down to kiss Lydia's forehead, her sweaty, red cheeks, stopping to rest her head in the curve of Lydia's temple. They stay like that until Derek, completely ignoring the glares of the nurse, steps around the bed to pull Cora into a bruising hug. 

There's not enough room for the seven of them, plus the bed, plus the various annoyed nurses and doctors coming in and out, but they make it work. Isaac lets one of the babies grab his finger, the tiny fist not coming all the way around, and has to step out of the room to breath deeply. Erica picks up one of the babies, staring down at it with round, round eyes while stealing sideways glances at Boyd. Derek cries into the crook of Cora's neck and doesn't say anything.

 

 

“That wasn't so bad,” Lydia says, shifting to lift her daughter's head up a little further. Cora shudders. “That was horrible,” she says flatly, but smiles down at her son anyway, murmuring in baby talk at him. He yawns, pressing his tiny hand against her side, worn out from being alive for just an hour, and Stiles' heart crumbles into pieces.

“Did you pick out names?” Allison asks, craning her neck over Julie's fuzzy head to stare at the girl baby. Lydia frowns. “I wanted Noah for a boy, but for her I don't know. Nothing we had really seems to fit.”

“Laura,” Stiles says and Derek gives a little jolt and stares at him. He yawns hugely, the wave of adrenaline already ebbing out of him. “She looks like a Laura.” Cora smiles and looks to Lydia, who nods, running her fingers over the tiny dark wisps on Laura's head.

Stiles yawns again and looks at his watch, wondering if he should call it a night and sleep on the floor or if Mrs. McCall will let him crash in the on-call room. It's past two am and as he's debating whether or not to risk the Jeep's questionable headlights, the realization hits him like a gut punch.

He gets up and leans against the wall, leaving a few inches between him and Derek, enough room to be innocent. “Derek,” he murmurs, “happy birthday.”

Derek's neck cracks, he turns so fast, staring at Stiles with a such a mix of emotions that Stiles can't exactly say _what_ Derek looks like but then there's a hand around his wrist and Derek is pulling, tugging him out of the room, into the hallway, pushing his wrist up against the wall and reaching a hand around the back of his neck to pull him all the way in.

It feels like drugs, kissing Derek, close mouthed and slow at first, still tentative, still giving him time to pull away, but when Derek takes another step forward, getting right up in his space, Stiles runs a hand up Derek's side, keeping his touch fleeting and light, dragging his nails over the short hairs at the nape of his neck. Derek bites his lip for that and Stiles does it again, splaying his fingers and flexing them and he counts it as a personal victory when Derek breathes sharply into his mouth at that.

“I want to—Derek, we should, I— _Derek_ ,” Stiles says fretfully, straining under Derek's grip. Stiles can feel him smiling against his mouth until he's not, until Derek carefully scrapes his teeth down the line of the tendon in Stiles' neck, nosing aside the collar of his shirt to suck a mark in the soft space between his shoulder and collarbone. Stiles makes a half-choked sound at that, arching into the press of Derek's warm, wet mouth and blunt teeth, hands scrabbling down to claw at his shoulder.

“Derek,” Stiles says again, trying to keep the whimper out of his voice, head spinning with the feel of it all. “We're in a _hospital_.” Which doesn't actually mean anything, it's not like there's a ton of people around at 2:28 in the morning, but it makes Derek let go of Stiles' wrist and take a step back, eyes a little glazed over. He licks his lips where they're starting to get puffy and Stiles mimics him unconsciously, the lingering prickle of Derek's stubble over his bare skin like static electricity.

“We should,” Derek starts, at the same time Stiles says “Can we _please_ ,” and before Stiles can follow that up, Derek is pulling at his arm, tugging him down the hallway, looking for what Stiles isn't sure until Derek stops, sniffs, and pushes open the door of a supply closet.

 

 

“Are you kidding me,” Stiles laughs, pulling Derek in after him and kicking the door shut, backing up until a shelf digs into his back. Derek cups his face in his hands, running his thumbs over Stiles' cheekbones, and then drops one hand down, running it over the hem of his shirt. It's like he's trying to covertly locate Stiles' zipper and the idea of Derek trying to sneakily get in his pants makes Stiles laugh and then choke.

“We should not be doing this at Scott's mom's work,” he says, giving absolutely zero fucks about this being Scott's mom's work. 

Derek pulls back, looking hurt, and Stiles laughs again, leaning in to kiss the sad from his face. “Hey,” he says, generously applying lazy, pliant kisses to the corner of Derek's mouth, the curve of his upper lip, the tip of his nose. He drops his forehead to Derek's, squeezes at his upper arm. “I'm really glad we're—I want to be here, I've thought about this a lot, like _a lot_ ,” he says, and Derek surges forward, creeping a thigh in between Stiles' legs and rolling his hips up, practically knocking Stiles back against the shelves. 

Stiles rolls his hips right back, partially to be an asshole, partially because Derek groans a little at that and drops to his knees, yanking Stiles' mercifully loose pants and boxers down with him. He looks down, he is physically incapable of not looking down to watch Derek, to see him hesitantly lick his way down Stiles' happy trail, thumbs digging into his hipbones.

Stiles is still looking down when Derek opens his mouth and takes in the head of Stiles' dick, sucking just hard enough for it to hurt in the best way. Stiles drags one hand over the top of Derek's hand, slamming the other on the nearest shelf hard enough to send at least one box rattling to the floor. “Oh my god, Derek stop, don't stop, I can't,” his hips jerk instinctively, wanting to sink in, to bury himself in the back of Derek's throat, but Derek presses his forearm across Stiles' belly to pin him in place, his free hand working gently at the base of his dick. It's almost too much, it's actually too much, it feels like a supernova under his skin when Derek opens his mouth, takes him in as far back as he can go. Derek's arm lets up just enough to let Stiles' hips rock forward, and when he pushes into Derek's mouth, the lightest edge of Derek's teeth scrape the underside of Stiles' cock. 

Stiles comes like a shot, back arched, legs against the shelves for support, and Derek presses an arm up his chest, his hand starfished over Stiles' heart. He swallows once, twice and the contractions in the back of Derek's throats send a series of tiny earthquakes through Stiles' overly sensitive dick. Derek straightens up, wiping the corners of his mouth on his sleeve, and Stiles stares at him like an idiot. Happy birthday _to_ _me_ _,_ he thinks and leans in to kiss Derek again, slipping his hands under Derek's shirt only to drag them down the curve of his back and grab at his ass. He tugs Derek's pants and underwear off one-handed, kicking them to the corner next to his own and—

A crack of light cuts through the darkened closet. Derek feels like marble under his hands and Stiles looks up slowly, still too post-orgasmic to be appropriately alarmed. Lydia's nurse is standing in the doorway.

Well then, Stiles thinks, and Derek shuffles back, trying to edge in behind Stiles. Stiles will not be forgetting this happened in the near ever.

"Okay," she says lightly, taking in their tandem progress towards looking actually ravished. “Hand me that box by your jeans.”

Stiles hands it to her and she gives them a small parting wave. There's a beat, Derek looking stunned and scared before Stiles cracks up.

“Oh my god,” Derek says from between his hands. “Oh my god, can we just go home.” Stiles pulls up his boxers with a satisfied snap, hands Derek his pants. He pulls them on guiltily,

“We can go home,” Stiles pulls Derek's hands away from his utterly mortified face, presses a kiss to the inside of his palm. “We can do whatever you want,” he says, kissing him slow and filthy even with the door wide open. “It's your birthday.” 


End file.
